


A Paler Shade

by rocketpool



Category: Leverage, Leverage/Supernatural, Supernatural
Genre: M/M, cross-posted from LJ, yep there's sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-12
Updated: 2010-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-02 02:46:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/364144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketpool/pseuds/rocketpool
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A skinwalker has chosen the same mark as the crew, and thinks they're either the perfect in, or in the way. Thankfully, an old friend of Eliot's is already hot on its trail.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Paler Shade

**Author's Note:**

> For the wonderful [](http://charlies-dragon.livejournal.com/profile)[**charlies_dragon**](http://charlies-dragon.livejournal.com/), who bid on me in Sweet Charity. I'm sorry it's late, darlin', I hope it's worth it! I worked in as many of her secondary requests as possible as well. Thanks to [](http://orphan-project.livejournal.com/profile)[**orphan_project**](http://orphan-project.livejournal.com/) and [](http://raggedy-edge.livejournal.com/profile)[**raggedy_edge**](http://raggedy-edge.livejournal.com/) for the cheerleading when I was banging my head on the wall trying to get the boys to talk, and thanks to [](http://lucdarling.livejournal.com/profile)[**lucdarling**](http://lucdarling.livejournal.com/) for the beta (so any faults are mine, folks). Stole the concept for Eliot's shapeshifting abilities shamelessly off of True Blood.

  
_Sophie_   


  


Sophie smiles brilliantly at their latest mark. A touch on the arm at just the right moment, a small laugh — oh yes, she’s got him right where she wants him. “If you’ll pardon me, I just need to powder my nose.” She tips her head just so, her hand on his shoulder, and he smiles, nodding like she knew he would. She turns and goes out into the hall, murmuring “He’s on the hook.”

Nate’s buzzing in her ear, micromanaging as usual. Hardison’s getting into the dark and secret places in the mark’s financials while Parker is getting her hands on his safe and the rest of his secrets. Sophie smiles again, her own this time, rounding the corner toward the bathroom where she’ll meet Parker to pass off his phone and safe deposit box key in just a few minutes.

She’s got her hand on the knob when she hears a sort of thump in the air vent. Sophie frowns; Parker is never so sloppy. “What are you doing?” she hisses, moving to stand under the vent, but Parker must not hear her because the conversation in her ear continues unbroken. The conversation in her ear…

_Scan what you can,_ Nate’s saying to Parker. _You need to be to meet Sophie in ninety seconds._

Sophie’s eyes widen and she steps back as whoever it is in the vent presses one hand against the grate. She opens her mouth, words failing her for how to warn the team for _this_ , but before she can muster anything she feels a prick in her shoulder, and the world goes dark…

  


_Eliot_  


  


_Aw, ain’t no need to pout man,_ Hardison says through the comm, doing nothing to hide the laughter in his voice.

“I ain’t—” Eliot grinds his teeth, doing his best to swallow his growl and not give Hardison the satisfaction of hearing it. “Y’know what, how ‘bout you get out’a your cozy ass van and stand around waitin’ for Parker to throw herself off the balcony at’cha?” He snickers a little at the way Hardison sputters, knowing full well the mental image he just put in the kid’s brain. Eliot totally misses whatever smart ass retort Hardison makes though, because Sophie rounds the corner.

Outside. And completely out of position.

The wind changes, and he smells her, smells _it_ , just a heartbeat before Parker’s voice stops all other comm chatter. “Guys? Why… why is Sophie unconscious in the air vent?”

The thing in front of him smiles, genial and _wrong_ in all the small and distinctive ways that matter. And it reeks of slime and mold and filth and sewage. Flat eyes narrow just a little, smile sliding into a sneer as it realizes he knows. It closes the distance, fast, faster than the last one of these sons of bitches Eliot had to face, and it’s only his instinct that keeps him from being hit. He recovers quickly, at least, catching the next hit and turning them, pushing it up against the wall with a hand around its throat.

He tries to not think about how easy it is for him to do this to something that looks so much like Sophie.

If it were human, that would be that, and the smarter move would be talking their way out or giving in. But it isn’t, and it doesn’t. Eliot can feel the body rearranging under his hands, can feel the moment the skin disconnects before it sloughs off in his grip. He’d gag if he thought about it too hard, which was apparently enough to keep him from realizing it had changed enough to twist and kick him hard in the gut. Eliot stumbles back, trying not to double over, but he takes a knee to his face with preternatural strength and he goes flying back.

He hits a car, and for a few heartbeats he’s worried about serious injury. But he’s pretty sure his nose ain’t broken, that his spine is in one piece. Eliot stays down just long enough for it to get close and he rolls, swinging a leg out and toppling it over. In the comm he can hear that Nate’s pulling the plug on the job, ordering them to regroup later. Asking Eliot what the hell is going on and if he’s alright.

“Ain’t the security,” Eliot growls out. He hasn’t got time to explain this —explain skinwalkers— let alone to make Nate believe him. Hell, he’s still trying to figure out where he’s going to get silver in any form capable of killing the damn thing. He’s barely got time to get to his feet before it’s on him again, its nails sharper now, catching him along his cheek and nose.

“Fucking shifters,” it says with Sophie’s voice, but with none of her inflections. It’s moving faster now, and Eliot is winded, doubly so when it catches him in the solar plexus. But it buries its fingers in his hair, twisting close to the scalp and pulling so he stays off the ground, her words spinning around in his head. “Always changing into _animals_. Pathetic.”

And then it drops him.

Eliot’s expecting another blow that never comes, and it takes a minute to figure out why, once he can get his breath. Someone else is fighting it, someone that knows what they’re doing. Someone with a smart mouth.

“—Kick your ass so hard the next thing you shed’ll need to be my boot.”

Ok, _should_ know what they’re doing. A knife, undoubtedly silver, skitters past Eliot’s head and under the car and he can hear the fight hit the wall, all grunting and scrabbling as first one gets the upper hand and then the other. Eliot debates with himself for just a moment whether it’d be worth it to pin the damn thing and hope there was more silver at hand or grab the knife.

But it’s a moment too long. With a shriek and a flurry of motion the skinwalker takes the advantage and bolts. Eliot rolls, grabs at the knife once, twice, and stands, but it’s gone. Long gone, and still wearing Sophie’s face.

“God dammit,” he growls.

“Yeah. You’re welcome. Always top of the list to save your ass, y’know how it goes. I’m good. Sammy dodged the anti-Christ bullet, thanks for asking. How’re you?”

“Dean Winchester,” Eliot says, smiling despite himself. “Man, it’s always good to see you.” Though to be fair, Eliot’s pretty sure he’d rather explain the skinwalker.

  


_Hardison_  


  


Hardison balls his fists and doesn’t look toward the windows. Parker is fidgeting, even now that Sophie has come around. It’s probably because Sophie still won’t explain anything, her face pale and lips pressed thin… God knows it’s why Hardison can’t sit still. Not with Nate and Eliot still absent from HQ, and the last he heard from Eliot involved grunting and hitting and cussing.

“They’ll be alright,” Parker says, but she sounds like she’s saying it because Sophie hasn’t yet.

He probably shouldn’t be surprised by the way his stomach tightens up, by the way he doesn’t relax, when the door finally opens. It’s Eliot —thank God, cos seriously, man, _something_ happened and they’ve got security precautions here but it’s not the _same_ — but that isn’t Nate on his heels. It’s some guy that looks like the kind of guy Eliot would know, with the jeans and the boots and the plaid and the leather jacket. And that smirk that doesn’t touch his eyes. He’s tall though, as tall as Hardison is himself.

“Where the hell is Nate?” Eliot looks pissed and sounds worse.

There’s a silence, a vacuum of noise where Sophie ought to be taking the lead. Hardison glances over at her, grinding his teeth when he realizes she’s pressed against the wall, staring at Eliot and the new guy like she doesn’t know what to make of them. “Ain’t here. Haven’t heard from him since he was all over radio silence.” He sticks his chin up at the new guy. “And who the hell is that?”

Eliot ignores him in favor of approaching Sophie. He goes slow and easy, hands up like she’s a spooked horse. Then again, with the way she leans into the wall a little more… Parker looks between them for a moment, brow furrowing like she does when she’s confused but almost gets it. She stares at Eliot for a moment, then nods, and turns to Sophie. “It’s still Eliot,” she says softly. “Really.”

“Like you would know!” Sophie says. And what the hell does that even mean?

“Look at me.” Eliot stands close, but not too close so Sophie could move away if she wanted. “Look me in the eye, Sophie. It’s me.” Sophie swallows and looks him in the eye. Eliot says something pretty quiet —Hardison doesn’t try to guess, he doesn’t wanna know, man, he just doesn’t _want_ to know— and her shoulders relax as she nods. Hardison might feel better about it if Parker didn’t look confused again.

“So much for the lone wolf thing huh?” New Guy says, smirking like there’s some joke between them. “I never realized that coyo—” Eliot’s growl seems to be retort enough —and Hardison thinks that maybe it’s comforting, just a little, cos that would mean the man ain’t a threat at least— and he raises an eyebrow. Eliot just glares at him and scrubs a hand over his face, and… takes a deep breath through his nose like he’s trying to smell something. Then he shakes his head at New Guy, one of those small military nods he does when shit gets tight, and the guy gives a small nod back the same way.

“Man, what the hell...” Hardison hadn’t meant to say it out loud, god knows Eliot’s twitchy enough —Hardison doesn’t like when Eliot’s twitchy, _really_ twitchy, especially when one of them is MIA— but he decides to carry through with it, cos seriously? “Why isn’t Nate here already? And seriously, who the hell _are_ you?”

“Old friend of mine.” Eliot very carefully doesn’t look at anyone when he says it. In fact, he’s paying painstaking attention to making tea that he’d know how to brew in his sleep. Hardison raises an eyebrow; it’s a better tell than handcuffs, man. He did the same thing right before that job with the horses and Aimee. Never you mind the leer New Guy shoots at Eliot’s back. Or maybe his backside, but Hardison is _not_ going to think about that, thank you very much.

“Name’s Dean,” the guy says, watching as Parker awkwardly hugs Sophie again and pulls her toward the dining room table, “Dean Winchester. I’m guessing your man—”

“Boss,” Hardison corrects emphatically.

“Boss,” Winchester concedes, “was grabbed by the skinwalker.”

Full stop. “Say that again? The hell is this, you watch too much Whedon or somethin’ man? _Skinwalkers_?”

Winchester snorts, lips curling in something like a smile, but his eyes are somewhere else. “Geeks. Why do you guys always go to Buffy? Doesn’t anybody watch the classics anymore?” Hardison glares at him, clenching his jaw, but on the edge of his vision he can see Eliot shaking his head. “Look, I’m serious here. Skinwalkers aren’t the cute and cuddly big bads that sparkle when daylight hits them, alright? They steal people’s faces to commit crimes, and usually people end up dead.”

“Seriously?” Hardison looks between Winchester and Eliot. “Seriously. You sure this isn’t a little too much late night cinema? Maybe you fell asleep during Mystery Science Theater and—”

“Ooooh,” Parker says, her smile a little to happy for the current state of affairs. She takes the tea from Eliot and passes it to Sophie. “I get it now! You’re a _hunter!_ I thought you were like Eliot.”

Hardison wants to ask about that, he does, cos he’s starting to think this whole day is one bad dream. But Sophie bites her lip, hands pressed out on the tabletop. Taking a deep breath. “She… it… looked like me.”

“Yeah.” Winchester says it like he’s sorry. “Closest I can tell this one had the same intended target as your team. It probably saw you as an easy in.”

Hardison shakes his head. This is crazy, seriously just _crazy_. But he’s been with Sophie long enough now he knows naked honesty from her when he sees it. Which means… “So wait. Just… How are we supposed to know one of us isn’t the thing? Better not be poking blood with a hot stick, cos we all know how well that ended for Kurt Russell.” Everyone gives him blank looks. Well, except Winchester, who actually chuckles like he gets it. “His ass was left out in the cold? Don’t you people watch anything?”

Eliot rolls his eyes. “Look, ain’t anyone in here, ok?” Hardison gives him his best _boy don’t shit with me right now cos I swear on my Nana I will make your life hell_ look, which just makes Eliot flustered and growly. Under other circumstances Hardison would count it as a win. “Look, just trust me on this ok? I’d know.”

“What, is it distinctive or something?” Hardison huffs.

Winchester snickers again. “Bet it _smells_ distinctive,” he mutters.

“You can do that?” Parker asks, and now she’s really grinning an looking at Eliot like she might jump up and hug him or pet him or both. “Even when you’re like this?”

“Parker, what are you talking about?” Sophie asks. At least now she’s got her hands wrapped around the tea cup, the liquid inside trembling a little.

“Cos he’s a werewolf!” Hardison exchanges a look with Sophie while Eliot just twitches, and Parker’s smile goes a little blank, like she’s just realized she said something wrong. “Didn’t you guys know? I thought everyone knew. Nate knows… Doesn’t he?”

“She’s adorable,” Winchester says at the same time Eliot says, “I’m not a _werewolf_.” Parker pouts a little, but Sophie raises an eyebrow at Eliot. Cos yeah, Hardison hadn’t missed that inflection either. Eliot looks uncomfortable, shoulders slumping a little when he finally sighs in resignation. “I’m a shapeshifter,” he mumbles. Before Hardison can so much as raise his eyebrows in surprise or open his mouth to say anything Eliot holds up a hand. “I turn into _animals_ not people. But I gotta be familiar with’m. And I don’t turn into a wolf, Parker. It’s a coyote.”

Parker’s mouth forms a silent _ooooooh_ and she claps happily. In fact, if Hardison didn’t know better he’d suspect she was contemplating buying doggie treats or something. Sophie just sort of blinks and looks like she wishes her tea was a little stronger. Hardison feels that, hell yeah, and he stalks toward the fridge with every intention of opening up a crisp new two liter.

“I don’t suppose you’ve got any left overs or something in there…” Dean says. Hardison and Eliot shoot him a glare at the same time, which would be more satisfying if Eliot didn’t look more concerned than annoyed. “Dude, you try tracking this sonuvabitch across two states by their _sewers_. You’re just lucky I showered this morning!”

  


_Parker_  


  


Parker is a little disappointed. She’d offered Dean some of her jealously guarded fortune cookies (Nate’s only ever found them once, and after that Sophie wouldn’t let him look anymore because it wasn’t really his apartment anymore), but he just sort of blinked and took the slice of chocolate cake from that job where Eliot was pretending to be a pastry chef instead.

“The cake is a lie,” Hardison intoned solemnly. “Pie is forever.” Parker’s pretty sure it’s just cos he was going to eat it later and not because Eliot can make Never Ending Pies. She thinks. Probably. …Could shapeshifters do that?

Considering Dean reacted to it a lot like Eliot always reacts to Hardison saying weird things, they’re probably ok. She’s not sure who Sammy is though. She writes the name on a slip of paper to ask Sophie about later. Sophie will know. And she’s pretty sure Sophie will be proud Parker picked up on “normal” information. At least, Parker _thinks_ it’s normal information.

“You want me to look for _what_ now?” Hardison doesn’t seem to be absorbing the supernatural stuff as well as he should be. He _is_ the one that watches all the movies. Shouldn’t he know?

Dean rolls his eyes, muttering something that might be _civilians_ under his breath. But before she can open her mouth to ask if he was in the military with Eliot (at least, she assumes he was in the military, he might not have been but there’s a lot of things that imply he was - she doesn’t ask cos it always seems to make him either sad or angry) he points at Hardison’s computer screen. “Light refraction from the eyes. Y’know, like nocturnal animals in night vision footage? I don’t know _why_ you can see it, that doesn’t fucking matter, ok? It’s going to be your best indication!”

“Man, do you even know how much footage I have access to? Ain’t no simple thing to just _look for light flares in the eyes_. I’m good, ain’t that good. You gotta gimme something better to go on.”

“Sewer systems,” Eliot growls out. “We know the mark so—”

“Yeah, and if your boy is wrong?” Hardison’s edgy, agitated. Parker frowns, wondering if Nate missing is worse than Nate being -what’s the phrase Sophie used?- daft and harebrained.

“Man’s been doin’ this since before you were playing _Oregon Trail_ , Hardison.” Even Dean steps back at Eliot’s intensity, at the way Eliot stalks toward the office screens, and retreats with his cake to where Parker is sitting cross legged on the kitchen counter. “We know. The. Mark.” Eliot makes sweeping gestures at the maps on the clear screen on the left. “Watch any video surrounding sewers or companies that would have large enough entries to the sewers ok?” He sighs, scrubs a hand over his face again. “It might look like Nate. Might not.”

Parker wonders what it means if it’s not Nate, but she doesn’t ask. She’s not sure anyone would like the answer.

Thankfully Eliot and Hardison go back to bickering like they ought to, pointing at different screens and snapping at each other. Sophie sips her tea, definitely much calmer and starting to look like she does when she’s contemplating a con. Unfortunately for Dean, Parker hasn’t got anything to do. So she picks his pockets. It’s so easy it hurts, getting around him so she can get some cereal (taking) and getting him a glass of milk (putting back). Totally not worth it just to look at a photo of a stupidly tall guy reading, all worn and creased, and a handful of fake IDs that are _really_ badly made.

“So how long have you been fucking Eliot?” she says.

Dean’s eyes go wide and he chokes on his cake. “Wh—? I mean. How did you…?”

“You smell like him. Couldn’t smell like that unless he sweats all over you.” Parker has another spoonful of cereal and waits for him to stop making that face like she’s crazy. “I’m not like Eliot or anything. You just have to learn what to smell for. Like telling antiques from fakes.”

“And… how do _you_ know what Eliot smells like… exactly?” Dean’s sort of holding his breath, watching her face closely, but Parker doesn’t know what it is he’s so worried about.

“Have you ever been stuck in a van with a person for more than an hour? Especially someplace like Southern California?” Parker rolls her eyes when his eyebrows knit together. “A person sweats on average two and a half liters per hour in situations like that. So come on. How long?”

Dean eats another bite of cake to buy himself a little time and shrugs. “I dunno, maybe… six years? Off and on… Mostly off the past few years. Now I see why.” Parker thinks that maybe he’s holding something back, but it can’t be that important or Eliot would say something. Dean pokes at the frosting on his plate. “How long’ve you known Eliot’s a shifter? No offense, I don’t really see him telling you.”

Parker grins a little. Yeah, Eliot hadn’t wanted to tell anybody, it’s true. “Well, it was back in LA, when none of us really knew each other, and I thought I’d break into his place to see what he was like—”

_Parker’s impressed. Eliot Spencer certainly lives up to his reputation, and he takes his personal security seriously. Two false leads, another two safe houses that he doesn’t actually live in, enough locks on the door to make it not worth the effort and a thousand tiny ways to tell that the doors or windows have been disturbed. He even set up tells around the maintenance door for the plumbing. However, like most people, Eliot didn’t think about the size of his air vents._

_She ends up needing to use the one in his bedroom because the one in his dining room is blocked. It’s almost too small —would have been too small by far if she’d needed gear or planned on taking anything with her— but she makes it, flexing and arcing to drop catlike onto the arms of a chair._

_And then the window opens in the other room. Parker thinks it’s the one over the fire escape and she frowns, suddenly angry. She doesn’t like it, isn’t even sure if she wants to like Eliot, or any of the team, but that was just it. **Her** team. So she creeps up to the door, not sure yet what she’ll do. Someone after Eliot might be dangerous, after all, but she can tell him, can sketch him a picture and give it to Nate so that Nate can take care of them, and…_

_It’s Eliot. Sort of. It smells like Eliot anyway (or at least, Eliot plus dog), and unless Eliot’s been training super smart dogs and didn’t tell anybody about it it’s gotta be him. His ears swivel around at her and he starts growling until he realizes it’s her too, and then he sort of barks at her low and gruff. His fur is brown, sort of like his hair, mottled with black and a little dirty, but his eyes are still blue. And those eyes are definitely Eliot. She’d heard rumors about stuff like this, in certain circles. Parker had just always assumed they were making it up._

_It’s actually pretty adorable, a lot like the stuffed wolf she’d stolen once to keep her Bunny company. So she skips right over and cuddles him. “You shouldn’t surprise people! I thought you were someone breaking in that wanted to hurt you!” Eliot chuffs at her, then starts to wriggle a little when she doesn’t let go. And then whimpers. “Oh! Do you want to play fetch?!”_

Parker’s not really sure why Dean thinks the fact that she kept on snuggling Eliot is so funny, but he’s turning red with the effort not to let Eliot hear him. Not that it works very well, and Eliot shoots him a glare, which apparently makes it funnier. Parker laughs with him; that’s what you’re supposed to do after all, when something’s funny. Right?

At last Dean’s wiping tears from his eyes and shaking his head. “You know he can turn into animals other than coyotes right?” Parker’s mouth is full but she widens her eyes and Dean grins at her like it’s the best thing in the world. “Almost any animal so long as he can look at it right before he shifts, but there’s a few he can do whenever. Like horses.” He waggles his eyebrows. “It’s like I always say… Save a horse…”

Parker waits for him to say something else, but he doesn’t. She sort of half smiles and asks, “Huh?”

“Y’know, save a horse, ride a cowboy?” Parker still doesn’t get it so she tries to fake a chuckle, but Dean’s onto her. “Seriously?” He glances at Sophie and Eliot and back at Parker. “Is she for real?”

“You’re terrible,” Sophie says to him pointedly, and she gets up, striding toward the panel screens. “Ok, here’s what we do. It wants our mark, so we can—”

“No.” Eliot uses the same voice he used when Nate and Maggie had been stuck in the elevator with a bomb. It brings Sophie up short, one eyebrow raised. But Eliot just crosses his arms, shoulders set, and Parker feels a cold coil of worry knot up in her stomach.

“Only way to deal with this sucker is silver.” Dean points a thumb at his own chest, tapping. “Preferably through the heart. And I hate to say it, but at this point we can’t afford to try amateur hour.”

  
_Nate_  


  
What brings Nate around is the smell. He’s been fortunate enough until now to never need to go so far as hide in, search through, or chase someone in or around a sewer. Sterling hadn’t been so lucky, but if he ever found out Nate had been kidnapped and stashed in one…

The last thing he remembers is Sophie —well, not _really_ Sophie, because Parker had found her in a goddamn ventilation shaft— giving him a right hook worthy of Eliot. He moves his jaw a little experimentally, pleased to note it’s not broken and all his teeth are in place. Which is, of course, the only thing he’s pleased about. His ass is numb, his back sore, and his arms are twisted behind him awkwardly, zip tied (he thinks) to part of a partition grate. At least this place seems to be dry. Mostly.

He tries to remind himself that alive is a good start, and tries not to think about what Eliot might do to him if he thinks Nate isn’t really who he says he is.

It takes some maneuvering, but he eases the tension on his shoulders and gets a better view. The lighting is dim, mostly coming from a little lantern —maybe a child’s camping lantern, certainly not intended to be the sole source of light— on a collection of crates a few yards away. Nate tries to take in everything he can looking for anything he might be able to use. There’s a mirror, dusty and dull and more than a little grimy, except for one spot that’s about where someone would try to look at his face. Some of the crates are crammed together, a plank of plywood laying unevenly on top to make a hodgepodge counter. There’s a fistful of batteries, what might be knitted gloves —old, and small, maybe also meant for children, definitely worn enough for holes—three discordantly neat (and thick) stacks of paperwork with what Nate guesses are safety deposit box keys very particularly laid out, and a mess of fast food wrappers that spill onto the ground….

Nate gags when he sees it. At first he thinks it might be a corpse, but there’s not enough mass to it, not enough blood. It glistens a little now —gelatinous most likely, not so different from squid guts— misshapen in the odd light. But it’s the… Face is the wrong word, but it’s the closest Nate can come. It’s like Sophie’s face is staring at him, hollow and too soft and eyeless…

He squeezes his eyes shut. It _isn’t_ Sophie, here on the floor. But _it_ isn’t Sophie anymore either. It feels like his phone is in his pocket, and he can hope his earbud is still in his jacket pocket, but… Nate tries pulling at his bonds; he knows it’s possible to break zip ties, that it’s only a matter of pressure at the right angle, but he can’t manage it. He grinds his teeth in frustration, ignoring the pain and trying like hell to think through the stink. He’s got to call the others. He’s got to do _something_ to warn them.

Nate’s not quite sure what he’s hearing at first, and then it slides into place. Running. Gasping. He thinks it’s behind him but it’s hard to tell, the sound carrying and bouncing oddly through the maze of tunnels. It rounds the bend in front of him.

It looks just like him.

It also screams with his voice and falls to the ground, some kind of canine —most likely a coyote, Nate can’t be sure in this light, though hardly something that should be in a sewer in Boston— mauling it from behind. The coyote growls now, and Nate can’t help but marvel that he hadn’t heard it in the tunnels as well. Nate watches himself —not-himself— struggle with it, contorting a little and slipping its skin in an effort to get away. It finally gets the upper hand, not by much, but just enough to give the dog a hard kick in the ribs, giving itself just enough room.

“You piece of shit,” not-Nate spits, and even the voice is contorting now. “Think you’ve any right to stop me. To take _my things_. I stole them first. You’re a… a… desecration!” It kicks the coyote again, hard, almost oblivious to the way the dog twists and bites, at the way the flesh in its leg sloughs away. “You think you’re _better_? You turn into _dogs_. Into _beasts!_ ” It gets another good hit in and the coyote whines and hits the wall. “You’re no better, you lying, thieving—”

“Hey, tons-a-fun!” There’s another guy —tall, carries himself like a hitter, unlikely he’s ex-military but it’s almost close, scuffed up like he’s been fighting, and more than a little familiar— rounding the bend, one arm extended to aim a gun —possibly a Colt 1911 but Nate can’t be sure in this light. “Time to shut the fuck up.” Predictably the thing turns, and Nate can’t help but flinch as he watches himself take five rounds to the chest. It doesn’t get any better when the guy stalks over and empties the rest of his clip, just to be sure.

“Took you fuckin’ long enough. And seriously, man. _Purple Haze_ as a warning? Yer worse’n Hardison, I swear to god…”

Nate isn’t sure he wants to know why Eliot is now where the coyote was. Or why he’s naked. In fact, he’s pretty certain he doesn’t want to know, and refuses to let his brain slot the pieces of Eliot’s long and storied past into place. He chooses instead to focus on the new guy who is, thankfully, coming to let him loose. Well, until he recognizes him anyway.

“Nathan Ford? _This_ is Nate?”

Ah. Right. San Francisco four years ago, Dallas two years before that. “Winchester.” He smiles as much as he can, given the situation. “How about you let me loose?”

In retrospect, Nate should have expected the punch.

  
_Dean_  


  
Dean sighs and disconnects before the automated voice throws him to voicemail. Again. Maybe he shouldn’t have expected Sam to answer, considering how they parted ways —and hey, who _doesn’t_ need a break after kicking Lucifer’s ass, right?— but he’d hoped anyway. He almost calls Bobby, but the water in the shower shuts off so he just throws his phone at his bag and boots instead.

He’s not really sure why he came back to Eliot’s apartment, to be honest. Dean’s got a motel room, after all, and it’s not like Eliot’s got a whole lotta room for a hunter in his life anymore. Hope, maybe. And he could really go for a friendly face that gives a shit, and maybe wants him around a little. Cos for all he ended the Apocalypse, no one’s letting go of the fact that he started it to begin with.

Awesome. Really.

But as shitty as Dean feels, Eliot looks worse. And it’s not just the bruised ribs, the collection of abrasions and cuts, the slowly darkening marks and bruises. And while Dean is more than a little willing to be distracted by the way Eliot’s wet hair clings to his face. And neck. And the tops of his shoulders… (Alright, more than a little, especially when you throw in how low that towel is on his hips. But still.) There’s a shadow in Eliot’s eyes, one that Dean doesn’t often see. The last time he’d seen something like it, Eliot had just come back from a job he wouldn’t talk about, his jaw clenched so tight it made Dean’s teeth hurt. Eliot just threw him against the nearest wall and fucked him until neither one of them were thinking about it anymore.

“The thing was wrong y’know.” It’s a guess, sure. Maybe Dean’s just spent too much time around Sammy, maybe. But Eliot just sort of stops and doesn’t look up. “You’re nothing like that asshole, ok?” Eliot snorts, opening his mouth to argue, but Dean cuts him off. “Look, I should know. Forget the whole been doin’ this shit since I was a kid part. I’ve spent the last two years fighting demons, angels, and keeping my brother from turning into the Prince of Darkness. If you were a dick, I’d know.”

Eliot stares at him for a minute, then just shakes his head. “Did the Apocalypse get you watchin’ chick flicks too? We supposed t’hug it out or somethin’ now, man?”

Dean raises his eyebrows. “Hug it out? No. Figured we could kill that bottle of Jack in my bag. Whether that’s before or after the crazy monkey sex is up to you.”

“Never,” Eliot says, already closing the distance. “Ever.” The towel slips and is dropped in his wake. “Say that again.” The sentence is punctuated by tapping his finger into the middle of Dean’s chest for all three words. Dean just swallows, eyes traveling southward, and nods because all that comes out of his mouth is a small groan. “Good.”

Eliot pulls on Dean’s belt with one hand, but it takes Dean a moment to think of pulling his shirt off because Eliot’s stroking himself with the other. Easy, sure movements, and Eliot smirks as he starts on Dean’s fly. By the time Dean does get his shirt off, Eliot’s got his hand down Dean’s pants, doing his level best to scramble Dean’s brain again. Dean retaliates by claiming his mouth, all teeth and tongue, trying to turn them. Eliot lets go of their cocks to push at his pants instead and they tip onto the bed, tussling until Dean finally kicks off his jeans.

Somehow Eliot’s managed to get the upper hand again and he straddles Dean’s thighs, growling in approval for finally being skin to skin. Dean pushes himself up onto his elbows but instead of kissing him Eliot mouths along his neck, biting at the joint with his shoulder before moving lower. His lips and teeth leave goose bumps in Dean’s skin, and he pauses to flick his tongue over Dean’s nipple, his hair falling to trail chill and wet against Dean’s chest. And if Dean shivers, he doesn’t have the frame of mind to guess if it’s from the droplets of water hitting his thighs or if it’s the way Eliot bites him, sucking lightly, as though Dean needs another bruise.

Eliot might be moving lower, but Dean’s got better ideas, and he knows where Eliot keeps his lube. Dean twists, careful as he can be not to telegraph his intentions. It works, mostly, works well enough. Eliot almost maintains his advantage, his grip tight on Dean’s thighs, but Dean fists a hand in his hair tight at the base of his skull. They roll and Eliot almost takes the advantage again, ending up on top just long enough for Dean to reach between the mattress and the headboard. They roll again and Dean grounds himself, legs spreading Eliot’s apart, his hand pinning Eliot to the bed by his hair.

Dean smirks when Eliot growls again, frustrated and pleased all at once. He knows if he gives Eliot too much leeway, if he doesn’t do something quickly enough, they’ll only be tussling again, so he rolls his hips, rubbing their cocks together. It buys him enough time to pop the lid of the small bottle of lube with one thumb, pour a little onto Eliot and close it again before running a finger through it. Eliot’s just starting to lift his hips, the familiar fire in his eyes promising that wrestling move he used on Dean that one time in Atlanta. Dean takes the opportunity while he has it.

He shifts his weight just enough to reach down and between them, fingers sliding back, and finds Eliot’s hole just as easily as if Eliot were offering it to him. Dean has to let go of his hair, now, but as his finger circles, pressing, teasing, Eliot isn’t fighting. Instead his breath is ragged, his eyes on Dean’s face, hands bracing on the bed now to lift himself enough to be encouraging, to try and get a little friction. Dean watches Eliot as he presses that finger in slowly, watches his eyes, already dilated to thin circles of blue, glaze over.

“Get on with it,” Eliot growls, pressing back down into Dean’s hand, rocking his hips a little as if to say he’d fuck himself on Dean if he had to.

It’s all the encouragement he needs, really, no matter what that look in Eliot’s eyes might or might not have been. (That’s not true, he knows. Even as he crooks his finger and Eliot groans, Dean knows that look, knows it’s _hungry_ and _wanting_ , knows that even Eliot probably isn’t sure what he’s asking for, or who, except that this, right now, will slake it for a while longer.) Dean strokes his fingers through the lube again and presses into him with two, working Eliot open. The hitter pulls a condom from somewhere, ripping it open slick and easy with his teeth, and pulls at Dean’s cock before sliding it on.

“Enough.” Eliot’s voice is tight now, almost begging. Dean doesn’t oblige him, not yet, flexing and tilting his fingers just so, just enough to brush the right spot, just enough to make Eliot quiver. “ _Fuck_.” Dean grins and does it again. “Jesus Chr— Dean!”

Dean’s already pulling his hand away and lining up, and he enters him in one smooth stroke, burying himself completely. If Eliot had been about to say anything else, it’s lost in a long moan, though Dean wouldn’t have processed it anyway. Eliot’s tight heat is enough to derail whatever coherent thoughts Dean has left. For a moment they just breathe as Eliot adjusts. And then Dean begins to thrust, hard and fast with every intention of fucking him into the sheets. Their mouths meet in a clash of lips and teeth, and Eliot rakes his fingers hard along Dean’s sides, leaving red welts in their wake.

Which is of course the moment Eliot chooses to flip them, and like some goddamn ninja he manages to keep Dean’s cock buried inside him. Eliot rocks into him, putting one hand flat against Dean to steady himself as he slides up and nearly off only to impale himself again, eyes fluttering a little when Dean’s cock hits the right spot. Eliot lifts up again and Dean decides maybe it’s worth it to be on bottom, just this once, and moves his hands to Eliot’s thighs to help steady him.

It doesn’t take long for them to find a rhythm, Eliot pulling not quite so far off, Dean lifting his hips on the down stroke so Eliot is filled completely. Dean reaches for Eliot’s cock as his motions become more rocking and less rising, but Eliot bats his hand away and begins stroking himself. Dean groans, his fingers digging into Eliot’s thighs as the man lets his head fall back, hair still clinging to him.

They’re both panting now, and Dean couldn’t stop, couldn’t look away if he needed to. It’s almost too much just to watch Eliot like this, his hand working in time with the thrusts, the twist of his wrist, the way he runs his thumb over the head and he bites his lip, his body clenching as though fighting the need to come. He tips his head to watch Dean with half lidded eyes, and that look is back, unreadable here at the edge.

“Eliot.” Dean’s voice is soft, almost strangled with need, and he doesn’t know if it’s begging or a prayer, if he’s asking a question he hasn’t got an answer to. If he’s answering a question he hadn’t realized had been asked. But he can feel Eliot’s orgasm building, can hear it in the way he breathes, can see it in the way his eyes un-focus completely.

Eliot cries out wordlessly as he comes, curling forward as he keeps rocking, painting them both as he tightens and shudders around Dean. Which is all it takes to push Dean over the edge, still thrusting in deep, his vision sparking at the edges as he falls apart. For a long moment they do nothing but breathe, and all Dean can hear is his heartbeat in his ears as they settle. Slowly Eliot gets off of him, collapsing on the bed beside him.

“So when are you heading out?”

Dean glances over at Eliot, and it doesn’t take much to put together the fact that the carefully blank expression is a lie. It’s like Bobby says, you can’t con a con man. (Well, except maybe that Devereux lady, if the others are to be believed.) “Dunno. It’s not like I got another job lined up. Was thinking maybe I’d see what kinda trouble I could find kicking around in Boston.” If Eliot’s eyes crinkle at the edges, Dean’s not about to call him on it. “Rochambeau for the shower?”  


  
_Finis_  



End file.
